All was well.

Over the steam of King's Cross Station, the late summer sun cast a warm, golden glow. The ordinary mingled unknowingly with the extraordinary—and, indeed, all was well. 

Among the hustle of commuters and the clatter of trains, a faint trace of enchantment lingered in the air. An almost imperceptible hum hinted at secrets unseen. Through the throng, a family wove their way forward: a bespectacled man with untidy black hair and a subtle lightning-shaped scar, his fiery-haired wife matching his stride, and their three children, pushing trolleys that carried more than just luggage. They carried the faintest whispers of magic waiting to be unleashed.

As this family, known as the Potters, proceeded further into the station, the familiar sounds of daily travelers surrounded them—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, and distant train whistles echoing beneath the high ceilings. Harry Potter moved through the bustling crowd with practiced ease, taking over the lead trolley alongside his sons, James and Albus. Tottering atop their trunks was a large, rattling cage that housed a tawny owl hooting softly in harmony with the station's rhythm. Behind them, Ginny kept a vigilant eye on their daughter, Lily, who sat perched atop Harry's shoulders, her bright eyes absorbing the lively scene unfolding around them.

"As I calculate it, we should be approaching the barrier soon," Harry said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And then it'll be on to you-know-where."

Ginny's smile faltered slightly. "It's our first year without Teddy," she murmured, a touch of worry creasing her brow. "I wish I knew he was safe."

Harry gave her a reassuring glance. "I wouldn't put him in harm's way, Ginny."

"Where's he gone to?" Albus piped up, looking between his parents.

James leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Teddy's on an undercover mission for Dad's department. Right, Dad?"

Harry met his eldest son's mischievous gaze and nodded solemnly. "Strictly need-to-know."

"And you, Al," James added, poking his younger brother's shoulder, "do not need to know."

Ginny shot Harry a pointed look. "Neither does his mother, apparently."

"Let's make this a pleasant day, shall we?" he replied to the group. 

Lily, ever curious, tugged at Harry's hair. "Just a question, but where—exactly—are we going?"

"We've been here plenty of times," Albus reminded her gently.

Lily tilted her head, pondering. "Oh, yes. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. What did you say last year, Mum?"

Before Ginny could answer, James adopted a mockingly instructive tone, mimicking his mother's voice. "All you have to do is walk straight at the wall between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it; that's very important. Best to do it at a run if you're nervous!"

"James," Ginny said, exasperation creeping into her voice, "give it a rest."

"And then what happens?" Lily pressed, undeterred.

"Nothing," James replied in his normal voice, a sly grin forming. "Unless you go in backwards."

As they approached the barrier, Harry's attention was drawn upward. On the footbridge above stood an elderly man with a long beard, his gaze fixed intently on the Potters. There was something unsettling about his piercing eyes. Harry felt a familiar tingle and instinctively reached for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, lowering Lily gently to the ground.

Ginny noticed the movement, concern flickering across her face. "What is it, Harry? Is your... your scar hurting?"

"No, I..." Harry hesitated.  He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully, glancing back up at the footbridge, but the mysterious man was gone. "An itch... nothing more."

"Harry." Ginny searched his eyes. "How long has it been since your scar hurt?"

"Nineteen years," he replied quietly.

Her expression tightened. "James! Lily, come straight back here. Time is of the essence."

She took hold of the second trolley, guiding the younger children ahead, her demeanor brisk but attentive.

Harry turned to Albus, who stood fiddling with the handle of his trolley, a contemplative look on his face. "Mum's right. Ready?"

Albus shifted his gaze to his father. "What if I'm not?"

Harry crouched slightly to meet his son's eyes. "I know what you've got in there," he said, placing a hand over Albus's heart. "However you see yourself—I know—know—that heart is a good one—the heart of a brave Gryffindor. Whether you like it or not, you're already on your way to being some wizard."

Albus looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's easy for you to say. You saved the world."

Harry sighed softly. "Well, that's a long and complicated story. And we don't have time for it."

"There aren't any prophecies about me, Dad," Albus continued, a hint of frustration edging his tone. "Things were just different for you. I don't think you see that."

"Albus," Harry said gently, "you're much better off than I was. My parents weren't alive to help me find the platform or buy supplies on Diagon Alley."

"I know," Albus conceded. "You've told us. Uncle Hagrid helped you."

"That's right," Harry affirmed with a nod. "I was nervous, too. It's intimidating, but consider it a temporary discomfort. Things will work out in the end. They did for me."

He cast another glance toward the footbridge, but the space remained empty. Albus noticed his father's fleeting look upward. "Are you worried the train will leave without me?"

A small smile tugged at Harry's lips. "My son is a Potter. They wouldn't dare."

Albus managed a faint smile in return. Harry straightened up, placing a steadying hand on the trolley. Together, they broke into a run, heading straight for the solid barrier between platforms nine and ten. Just as it seemed they might collide with the bricks, the wall gave way, and they vanished from the platform—seemingly into thin air—but there was nothing to fear.

All was well.